


While It's Dark (or, Withnail & It)

by peevee



Category: Withnail & I (1986)
Genre: Alcohol, Drunkenness, M/M, Yuletide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-20
Updated: 2014-12-20
Packaged: 2018-03-02 09:33:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,245
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2807750
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peevee/pseuds/peevee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“How did he die, anyway?”</p><p>“Choked on a cucumber, for all I care.” Withnail sticks his tongue into the neck of the bottle hopefully. “But there’s the matter of the will.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	While It's Dark (or, Withnail & It)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [eruthiel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/eruthiel/gifts).



> Happy Yuletide, eruthiel! I was so excited to be able to write Withnail & I fic for you. I was lucky enough to be able to go and see it again at my local cinema just before assignments came out, and that made me even more happy to receive yours! I hope you don't mind that I cobbled together a few of your prompts to make this fic, because I had so much fun writing it, and I really hope you like it. 
> 
> Thanks so much to P and r for your suggestions and comments <3

_Dearest Marwood,_

_The old fucker is dead. Come to London immediately, there are matters that need to be discussed. Bring wine._

__

 

The creature is still alive. He hasn’t seen it, but he knows it’s there; the infernal _noises_ that it makes, like it knows that its food supply is gone.

Cupboards. Cupboards. That’s where food is kept, so _where is it?_

“Fuck!” He sweeps a tea set to the stone floor. It shatters with the sound of a thousand hot needles stabbing him in the eyes.

“Where is it? Where is it!”

The creature yowls. Withnail scrabbles towards the back of the cupboard, _ah!_ Meat. Meat lumps, in some sort of viscous liquid. It all slides cylindrically from its tin and wobbles there on the floor.

“Here!” Withnail tries. “Here! There’s… food here for you, kitty kitty kitty!”

The yowling stops, but the creature remains hidden. Damn it! _Damn_ Monty, and his beast, and his fucking vegetables. A carrot wilts at him from the dusty windowsill, and he steps backwards, china cracking under his heels. There’s a cellar waiting, after all, and the animal can fend for itself or starve.

“Withnail?”

Withnail blinks, but his eyelids are uncooperative and refuse to do his bidding. His mouth tastes like the creature might have pissed in it. His hands clutch convulsively around the bottle in his hand and he swigs at the dregs.

“Withnail?”

The taste doesn’t improve, but his throat begins to burn ominously. Withnail lets his stomach settle before attempting to open his eyes again, but the darkness remains. A horrifying thought emerges.

“Oh god. Oh god, I’m blind!”

“Withnail, where the fuck are you?”

“I’m blind, I’m blind!”

“Jesus Christ!”

There’s a crunching sound, then suddenly _light_.He can see! Standing bathed in a halo of it in the doorway is a man, an angel, and Withnail begins to laugh with the sheer joy of it. 

“Withnail, you bloody cunt,” says the angel. “Get up.”

-

Marwood makes sausages, and they eat them with the dregs of the bottle and potato cakes fried in butter. His hair has grown out again, but he’s lost the reddish blush of insomnia around the eyes. 

“You look… well,” says Withnail, baring his teeth. His eyes feel fuzzy, and he blinks, stretching his mouth wider.

“And you look recently undead; how long have you been here anyway?” Marwood glances suddenly behind him, a fine sheen of nervous sweat beading on his forehead. “Jesus!” He saws viciously at his potato cake, butter bleeding on the plate. “It’s like I can feel him breathing down my neck, how can you stand it?”

“If it weren’t for the food situation I’d never leave. The bastard had enough booze to pickle us both alive.” He upends the last of the wine into his glass.

“How did he die, anyway?”

“Choked on a cucumber, for all I care.” Withnail sticks his tongue into the neck of the bottle hopefully. “But there’s the matter of the will.”

“The will?” Marwood brightens. “Is that why you invited me to this godforsaken place?”

Withnail leans forward, gleeful. “This godforsaken place is ours!” He takes a triumphant bite of sausage. “I’d have killed him years ago if I’d known; he had no-one else, the sad old fucker. Would’ve slipped him one of Ed’s pills, that would have done him in a second.”

“Jesus.”

“So you can move in whenever you fancy, though of course I’ll have the master bedroom. I have pain, you know, in my… limbs. And my organs. Chronic.”

“Jesus Christ. _Move in?_ I have a career, Withnail!”

“Nonsense. If it’s not in London it’s not a career; we both know that, my dear.”

“Fuck you. Fuck you, and fuck this house, and fuck fucking Monty! Was there anything else you wanted me for, Withnail?” Marwood stands, and the chair makes a hideous scraping sound against the tile. The red around his eyes is back, and his hair is wilder from having his hands anxiously scrubbing through it. He looks perfect.

Withnail begins to laugh. 

“What? What are you laughing at, you fucker?”

Withnail laughs harder, and the beastly creature runs into the kitchen and begins to yowl. “What, Withnail?” Marwood cries.

“He left us the cottage as well!”

-

An undefined volume of booze later, and Marwood is half-consumed by a chintzy sofa, idly feeding the creature bits of sausage from his hand. The jellied meat substance is spreading, sentient, across the kitchen floor.

“Can we sell it?”

“Something. Will. I read it a bit, something something. Can’t sell the place until we’ve holidayed there, for old times sake”

Marwood blinks. “Bollocks! The man was insane.”

“Insane, yes, and quite hideously rich. Dangerous combination, if you ask me. I’ll bet he had a nice long filthy wank over that will. I bet you can see the splatters of semen. I bet you can _smell_ them.”

“I’m going to be sick!”

“I bet it was the biggest thrill he ever had, finding us in bed together!”

“La la la,” says Marwood, sticking his fingers in his ears and making the beast leap off his lap with a hiss. “La la la I can’t hear you!”

“He peeked in through the keyhole, and rubbed one off against the door,” says Withnail loudly. “Just imagine his beady little eyes, his quivering moustache.”

“Christ! I’m going to bed. And I’m leaving in the morning, Withnail, you can sort this fucking mess out yourself.”

“He wanked himself silly thinking about your arse!” Withnail shouts, over the slamming of the door. 

Booze. More booze is most definitely required. 

-

He wakes some time later, mouth as dry as a stiff sock. A few embers rustle in the fire, and Withnail has the creeping feeling of being watched. 

Slowly, slowly, he lowers himself to a crawl on the floor and begins to make his way towards the door, stopping briefly to finish off the half-bottle on the table. A scraping, clawlike sound comes from the corner of the room, and Withnail freezes halfway across the floor.

“Oh god,” he mutters, “Oh god, help.”

More scrabbling. Time to take action, lest he be found dead and half-eaten in the morning. 

“Aaaargh!” he screams. 

“Mraww!” the beast screeches. He throws the bottle and doesn’t look back, hearing yowling and crashing behind him as he gallops the stairs. 

Marwood is on the landing, milk-pale in the cold light.

“What’s happening, Withnail? Who’s there?”

“I took care of it. It’s dead. Go to bed.” Withnail backs him into the bedroom.

“What’s dead? Oh for fuck’s sake, did you kill the cat?”

“It attacked me first,” says Withnail darkly, “you’d have found me with my legs and face eaten off. Do you want that?”

“It’s just a cat!”

The beast howls its displeasure, and Withnail pushes at Marwood’s bare shoulders. 

“In! In! It wants flesh!”

“Christ, Withnail.” Marwood pushes the heels of his hands into his skull. “My eyes are burning, stop shouting!”

“Quiet man, don’t you know it’s the middle of the night? Get into bed, I’m cold.”

“I hate you,” says Marwood feelingly as he crawls under the covers. “Truly, I loathe you.”

“My god, man, you’re freezing. Don’t touch me!”

“I’m cold because _you_ tried to kill the fucking cat, got me out of my bed, and now you have most of the blankets. In my bed!”

“Shush now!”

There’s a brief struggle as Marwood tries to smother him with a pillow, but Withnail is too drunk and Marwood’s heart isn’t really in it. His feet worm their way under Withnail’s calves pointedly. 

“If you wake me again, I’ll strangle you in your sleep,” he murmurs. Withnail inches slightly closer, until he can feel the cool point of Marwood’s nose pressing against his neck.

-

They do wake again, stuck together in a furnace of blankets and bedding. Withnail thrashes at the coverlet until it’s all piled onto Marwood and lies there, gasping blissfully. He toes off his socks and wriggles from his underthings, then shoves again at the mass of blankets. There’s a thump, and Marwood’s enraged hair struggles out of the tangle on the floor.

“I-,” he manages, mouth gaping apoplectically, “you-! Why are you naked? Why am I on the floor?”

“Come here,” Withnail says.

“What? No!”

“Stop being tiresome.” He makes a grab for Marwood’s arm. 

“Withnail! We’re not--what are you--?”

Withnail shuts him up, his still-moving mouth warm even if it does taste like he’s been licking dust. Withnail’s palate has been fairly scoured anyway, and he presses forward as Marwood thrashes and makes noise and grabs at his arm with clutching fingers.

“What are you doing?” he says, low. “Are you drunk?”

“Well, obviously,” Withnail says, and kisses him again, and this time Marwood takes a sharp breath in through his nose and lets him. His hands are still rigid claws around Withnail’s upper arms, but his mouth is as sweetly soft as it looks. 

It lasts for a minute or so before Marwood starts making strange choking sounds into his mouth. Withnail pulls away to shield himself from flying spittle only to find that he’s _laughing_. The bastard is laughing hysterically, one arm thrown over his face to wipe at his streaming eyes as he laughs and laughs and laughs. Withnail rolls off him and lies flat on his back.

“God, I need a drink.”

Marwood flops sideways and fishes a pack of cigarettes from his trousers with a shaking hand; Withnail props his head on one hand to get a better view of his arse.

“Give me one.”

He sucks at the smoke, studies Marwood sideways.

“I’ll suck you,” he offers, “then I can just rub off between your thighs. It’ll be like our schooldays all over again, hm?”

Marwood drops the cigarette on his chest, then leaps off the bed, stamping on the ashes and brushing frantically at the two strands of hair that he probably sprouted at eleven.

“Fuck!” he says. “Jesus.” He cups his hand over his crotch belatedly, and they stare at each other: Withnail naked, legs spread, ashes dropping onto his chest. Marwood’s eyes flick down to his mouth, then up hurriedly. 

“I’m leaving tomorrow,” he says uncertainly.

“Fine, fine. Come here.”

“I,” Marwood takes a step forward, “I-”

Withnail twitches against the urge to drag him down. He looks ridiculous, with his chicken legs, his hairless chest, pants pulled high. Withnail wants to bite him.

Marwood falls towards him, cold-prickled skin and grabby hands and trembling mouth. “What the fuck are we doing,” he says, all the while squirming closer against Withnail’s body, nosing at his jaw, sucking at his mouth with a strange, terrified sort of desperation.

“Fucking,” says Withnail, and Marwood laughs a despairing wheeze into his hair. 

-

He flails a little against the coverlet as Withnail pushes into him, mouth wide and shocked and moving slackly. There’s a soft red bite mark on his neck, and Withnail licks it, bites him again, presses his face into the flexing muscle between his shoulderblades.

“Spread your legs,” he manages, and there’s something behind his eyes, at the back of his throat. He’s not drunk, and he doesn’t sob even a little bit.

Marwood does. “Jesus,” he says, “oh, Jesus, Jesus,” and he lets Withnail spread him open and clutch at his waist and fuck him so tenderly.

-

“I have to go.”

Marwood pulls his ridiculous pants up around his waist and scratches at the back of his neck. He lights a cigarette.

“I’ll sell this place,” Withnail says, blowing smoke at the ceiling. “I’ll wire you the cash.”

“Don’t. I don’t need--”

“It’s yours. Here, what time’s your train? Let me walk you to the station this time, hm?”

“Withnail, we can’t.” Marwood stubs his cigarette on the mahogany dresser and leans over him on one elbow, kisses him lightly on the mouth. “Will you be okay?”

“I’ll be a rich old fart, just like him,” says Withnail. “Screwing pretty young men and wanking over vegetables. I’ll be marvellous. What man could be unhappy in a house with a cellar like this? Stay.”

“I _can’t_ , I--”

“Just while it’s dark. Stay.”

“While it’s dark, then. Yes. Okay.”

-

Withnail wakes to an empty bed, and the stench of sour, unwashed animal. It’s less than satisfactory.

“Get out,” he hisses, after establishing that he isn’t the source (he bathed on Wednesday; it’s almost probable that less than a week has passed since then). A soft, wet _something_ touches his ankle.

“Eurgh!”

The creature makes a high, piteous sound, and he wrenches the coverlet away from it. It stands at the foot of the bed, fur fluffed on end and stained with a fine spray of burgundy, and takes another curious lick at his ankle. 

“Hungry, are you? Fat little fucker.”

Pulling himself out of reach, he eyes the beast carefully. It blinks at him, sits, and begins to clean itself in a disgusting manner. When it fails to do anything more menacing than that, Withnail carefully drags himself out of bed and into his shirt and trousers.

“Breakfast, then,” he says decisively. The creature leaps from the bed and trots a short circle around his legs. “Sausages,” he tells it, as it butts its filthy hide against his calf, “and perhaps a little of that Riesling from the pantry.”

It makes another sound at him, and he gives it a long, considering look. 

“And then… how about a little trip to the country?”


End file.
